Cygnet

by Patricia A. Mckillip

  “He’s not dead,” Meguet said wearily. She began to tremble suddenly; methodically, she tried to unbuckle the sword belt dragging at her side so she could sit. Her hands shook; the buckle would not loosen. Calyx’s hands moved under hers, flicked it open; she sat down finally, the sword across her knees. The Holder touched a pin in her hair, frowning down at Meguet, then swung back at Rush.

  “Why?”

  “He was threatening Meguet.”

  “A tinker?”

  “She had drawn her sword against him.”

  “So Meguet was threatening the tinker. And you set him on fire. I gather this was no ordinary tinker. Meguet, why did you take up arms against a tinker?”

  “He isn’t a tinker.”

  “Wasn’t,” Rush murmured.

  “He isn’t dead.” She heard him gather breath; she leaned forward in the chair, gripping its arms, gazing at him. “The yellow star its lintel, the yellow star its roof, the four stars of red and pale marking its black walls, the blue star marking its door latch. That’s the house you burned, Rush.”

  In the silence, the Holder pulled at a pearl hairpin. The pin came out; a strand fell. “That’s a Hold Sign,” she said harshly. “Meguet.”

  “Yes.” She met the Holder’s eyes. She was still trembling; the jewels in Moro’s sword and the sword belt shivered with light. “And the dark house that falls from the sky, in the Wayfolk man’s tale.”

  The Holder stared at her, her face waxen against her dark, scattered hair.

  “What Wayfolk man?” Rush demanded, and the Holder turned, looking, in the cast of firelight, fierce, dishevelled, oddly like Nyx. Rush swallowed. He said again, more quietly, “What Wayfolk man?”

  “A man with Nyx. Meguet saw him.”

  Rush’s face whitened. Meguet found herself on her feet again, speaking as calmly as she could. “A young man wanting a spell from Nyx. He spoke of a little dark house falling out of the sky—”

  “That’s a song,” Calyx said wonderingly. “The house you never leave.” She paused, blinking at something in the fire. “And it’s a Hold Sign. The Gold King.”

  “His eyes were gold,” Meguet said. Her voice faltered; she finished in a whisper. “The tinker’s eyes were gold. He was roasting a lizard. When the house burned, I saw the lizard’s eyes. They looked at me and they were gold.”

  “Sorcery,” Rush said flatly. The Holder said nothing. Her eyes searched Meguet a moment, then hid their thoughts. She pulled at another pin; it glittered to the floor.

  “Nyx could fight it,” Calyx suggested. “She would come home for this.”

  “No,” the Holder said sharply.

  “But, Mother, she has studied sorcery for nine years! If she can protect this house, she will, I know it—”

  “I don’t want her fighting anyone! I will not bring Nyx into danger.”

  “But if this house is in danger, we need someone to protect it, and Nyx—”

  “No.”

  “Are you afraid,” Rush asked abruptly, “that it’s not this house she would fight for?”

  The Holder’s face flamed. He had struck her wordless; wordless, she struck back. The force of her blow rocked him a step and shook a few pins out of her hair. Rush dropped his face in his hands; she rubbed her wrist. She spoke first, grimly. “This is not the time, Rush Yarr, to show me my worst nightmare.”

  Rush reappeared; Meguet, shocked motionless, saw the blood between his fingers. Calyx, looking cross, pulled a square of lace from her sleeve and he applied it to his nose. “You hit like a blacksmith,” he commented. Meguet, gripping the sheathed sword with both hands, eased her grip and set it down.

  “We cannot start fighting each other,” she breathed.

  “No,” Rush said. “I’m sorry.” He sat down; so did the Holder.

  “So am I,” she said after a moment. “It would be easy to blame Nyx for every evil in the Delta now, but for eight years before this, her reputation has been blameless. Don’t overlook that, Rush.”

  Calyx picked pins off the floor, began to tidy her mother’s hair. “There’s old Diu up in Berg Hold. Chrysom’s descendant. We can send for him.”

  “No.”

  “Well, Mother, we have a sorcerer living in the thousand-year-old wood who frightened Meguet, who is not afraid of anything. What do you want to do about him?”

  “I don’t know yet.” She looked at Meguet. “Is that why you went into the wood? Did you suspect he was there?”

  “No. I didn’t know where he was.”

  The Holder straightened, tugging her hair out of Calyx’s hands. “You knew he was in this house? You didn’t tell me?”

  “I didn’t—The Gatekeeper mentioned a tinker in a little black wagon who came into the house and vanished. I wasn’t looking for him, no. But I recognized him when I saw him.”

  “Then why did you go into the wood?”

  “The trees were beautiful,” she said helplessly, puzzled. “Quiet, mysterious in the snow. They drew me in.”

  “They weren’t quiet for long,” Rush said dourly. “They rambled all over, especially after I tried to set them on fire. The tinker must have misjudged my power, or he would not have bothered to hide in his house.”

  “Or perhaps your ineptness terrified him,” the Holder murmured.

  “But why,” Calyx said, setting a final pin in place, “would a sorcerer disguise himself as a tinker, drive around in a wagon reminiscent of a constellation and hide himself in the thousand-year-old wood?”

  “Why,” Rush asked, “would a Wayfolk man speak to Nyx of that same house?” The Holder’s eye fell on him; he added carefully, “It begs an answer.”

  “Well,” the Holder sighed, “Nyx is the one to ask. But,” she added emphatically, “I do not want her back here. I would irritate her and she would upset me.”

  “Mother, you are being completely unreasonable,” Calyx said softly.

  “So is Nyx. Meguet will speak to her when the weather clears.”

  “She asked me to go with her,” Rush said. The Holder raised a question with an eyebrow. Meguet shook her head.

  “He would not leave the gate.”

  “Good,” the Holder sighed. “It would terrify me if he did. Then go with her, Rush. But,” she said severely, “do exactly as Meguet tells you, and do not antagonize Nyx.”

  “But what about the tinker?” Calyx persisted.

  “We’ll wait.”

  “For what?”

  “For the pot to break,” the Holder said darkly, “and give us something to mend.”

  “I found your tinker,” Meguet said to the Gatekeeper, climbing up the steps to join him later. It was dusk; stone and sea and sky were all of the same raw grey. Children flung snow at each other in the yard; men stood around the forge fires, drinking ale and watching the world go dark. The Gatekeeper, lighting his pipe and trying to rise at the same time, took in smoke; she waited, standing on the top step, until he settled it.

  “Sorry—”

  She had disturbed him, she realized suddenly; shifting for her to enter, he did not look at her. She saw his jaw tighten in his lowered face. He drew a clean breath finally.

  “You startled me. I heard you and Rush Yarr were found among the shifting trees. No one knew there was a tinker involved.” He looked at her finally, eyes narrowed against his smoke. “Is that what burned?”

  “His house.”

  “But not the tinker.”

  “No.” He sat very still, pipe still in his hand, waiting. “You must keep watch for the tinker coming or going through the gate. But be careful of him. He is quite dangerous.”

  He gazed at her, his face dark against the darkening sky. “Lady Meguet,” he said finally, “it’s not me went in the back wood to roust out that tinker. Is he still there? Or does anyone know?”

  “No.” She thought of the lizard’s gold eyes, and shivered lightly. “He could be anywhere.”

  He murmured something, shifting; forgetting her, he spat suddenly over the
window ledge. “He had trouble painted all over his house, and yet I let him in. He spoke fairly enough, and gave me his reasons… I should have known. A tinker wearing gold, and hardly a pot in sight. What is he, then?” She hesitated, caught his full, angry, insistent gaze. Astonished, she heard herself answer:

  “Rush Yarr thinks a sorcerer.”

  He still watched her. “You don’t.”

  “No. I’m not sure what he is.”

  “But you guess.”

  Pressed, she flared at him suddenly. “I’m only seeing shadows. You are overbearing.”

  “Nyx,” he said, and she stared at him, speechless. “You only get like this with me when it’s Nyx on your mind. That’s a broad leap to make, from this house upriver to the swamps. From tinker to the Holder’s daughter.”

  She stood up so abruptly she hit her head on the low, slanted stone roof. She sat back down, tears of anger, pain, frustration springing into her eyes. “How dare you,” she demanded, rubbing her head furiously, “tell me what I am thinking. You have no right to judge Nyx, even if you were born among the small orange birds.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” He had one arm around her shoulder, his head close to hers; it was his hand, then, rubbing her hair. “I’m not judging Nyx, I swear by the next thing comes off the river bottom. I’m Gatekeeper, and it’s up to me to put a name to everything on two legs that comes in and out of this house. There’s no name for that tinker.”

  “You assume because the tinker is evil, that Nyx must be—”

  “No. You connected them, not me.”

  “Don’t tell me what I’m saying.”

  “I’m sorry. Nobody ever taught me any manners. I only—I would cut my heart out for this house.” He was stroking her hair now, his voice, tense with his own frustration, close to her ear. “And it was me that let the tinker in. I have never made a mistake before.”

  She lifted her head, sliding her hand under his hand; she sat back against the stones, flushed, her hair dishevelled. He watched her, the small lines gathered at the corners of his eyes. She stood up again, carefully, and saw how his hands lifted as if to guide her, then fell. She said, more calmly, “You were right about Nyx. I am going upriver with Rush to talk to her. Don’t tell me to be careful of her.”

  “No,” he said quickly. “I like living.”

  She opened her mouth, closed it. Her mouth crooked. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Nyx worries me so. And this house.”

  “I know that.” He stood up so swiftly she feared for his head, but he was used to dodging the slant. She felt his arm hover protectively around her, above her head as she ducked under the stone lintel. She went down the steps slowly, wanting to look back and not daring. She looked back finally, met his eyes.

  She and Rush left two days later. The rains had slowed, but the river was still full, swirling angrily, opaque with silt. Once out of the city, she had to choose her paths carefully; the path along the river bank was under water in some places. In others, the river had spilled far over into other pools and creeks, and they had to backtrack, skirt, go south, Rush pointed out too often, to go north. It was wearisome, with the rain falling intermittently; neither of them spoke much. Rush’s face was pale, set; he looked constantly ahead in his mind, seeing a woman he had not seen in nearly three years, instead of what lay under his nose. Meguet had to guide him around soggy bogs, pull him away from the crumbling hillside. It took them an entire day just to reach sight of a tavern she knew that had a couple of rush-filled mattresses, and a meal. She said with relief, “I thought it might have fallen into the water.”

  “What?” Rush said, roused. “That shack? That’s an inn? How much farther is it? Can we get there tonight?”

  “We’ve been slowed by the flooding. Dark falls fast here. I don’t know how long it will take us to reach her house, but we can’t do it tonight.”

  “I’d rather sleep in the rain than in that flea-bitten hut.”

  “Suit yourself,” she said tiredly, then saw something within the trees: a black that took her breath away. Rush made a comment she did not hear; her attention was busy, trying to pick the black thing apart from the woods, make a familiar shape out of it. It moved as they moved, toward them; Rush, catching sight of it, fell silent.

  It was a woman. Meguet eased in her saddle as she came closer: a woman in black, with her cloak lifted, held against her face, covering nose and mouth. She fluttered oddly, with wind that was not there. She stopped in the middle of the path, waited for them. Meguet saw ash-white threads endlessly circling the dark hem of her cloak; her lips parted.

  “It’s a witch,” she breathed.

  “What?”

  “From Hunter Hold. Look at the pattern on her skirt and her cloak. Look at her sandals—they make them of bitterthorn. She must have walked all this way… No.” A chill ran through her, of wonder and fear. “No. She has sent herself ahead of time.”

  “She what?” Rush said incredulously.

  “She is in Hunter Hold. And she is here. She sent her image along time with a message.”

  “Are you sure?” Rush asked urgently. “Is it sorcery?”

  “No. They only walk the path of time.” She quickened her pace then, rode alone to meet the witch.

  She was an old woman, grown strong and implacable as thorn and iron in the black desert of Hunter Hold. Her grey eyes were milky, as if she had looked too often at the full moon. She blinked uncertainly at the black-clad rider in front of her, as if desert winds were blowing a fine mist of sand before her eyes. Then she dropped her cloak from her face.

  “Meguet Vervaine.”

  She felt her face blanch. “Yes.”

  “You must beware.”

  The witch’s voice, for all her stamina, was fragile as a glass bell. Her image flowed in the wind of another Hold. Meguet, aware of the rain touching dead leaf and twig and water with slow, delicate fingers, of Rush’s horse stirring wet leaves on the trail behind, answered finally, “Yes.”

  “You must go back. You must watch.”

  “What—” She drew breath. “What have you seen?”

  “In the last full moon, I looked along the path of time and I saw a lady as beautiful as night walking toward the house of the Holders of Ro Holding. She walks along the line of time, and the great house stands in her path, and as she walks, she grows vast or the house grows small, small enough for her to crush underfoot if she keeps along that path.”

  “A lady.”

  Meguet swallowed, her voice shaking. Nyx, she thought, Nyx as dark as night. But the witch had seen a different path.

  “She may know the house is there, or she may not, I could not tell, for she is blind. You must watch for her. Will you watch, for the Holders of Ro Holding? You can see. Will you watch?” Meguet was wordless, shivering badly. The woman huddled into her shapeless clothes, took a step back into her own time. “Watch!” she pleaded, in her fine, frail voice. “Watch, for the Cygnet!”

  “Meguet,” Rush breathed, and she started.

  “Watch!” the old woman cried. “You have the eyes.”

  Somehow her voice came clear, certain. “I will watch.”

  The sending faded; a darkness crumpled in the air and vanished. Meguet watched the place where she had been, as if she might see the beginning and end of time appearing there. She felt a touch on her arm and whirled, pulling her horse back.

  “Meguet.” Rush stared at her, startled, disturbed. “What did she say to you?”

  She touched her eyes, closed them and saw the dark of night, the dark of time. “We must go back,” she whispered.

  “Now?” he said sharply.

  She opened her eyes. “Rush,” she said, “the witch gave warning to the Holder’s house. Warning to the Cygnet. Nyx can wait. She is not the danger. Ro House is in danger and it can’t wait.”

  “Warning of what?”

  “I don’t know. A blind woman.” She turned her horse blindly, night falling fast, and the threads of paths through the
swamp as tangled as the threads of time. “Some blind woman. She must not enter the House. I must go back and warn.”

  “Why you?” Rush asked bewilderedly. “Why did she cross your path, and not the Holder’s?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Or the Gatekeeper’s?”

  “Rush, I don’t know. She told me to watch. How can I watch anything in the middle of this swamp with night coming on—”

  “You can’t,” Rush said, for once making a decision for her. “Unless you know how to throw your image across the Delta.”

  “No.”

  “Then,” he said, resigned, for she knew he would not let her ride back alone, with such strange things happening around them, “we will spend the night in the shack and be home tomorrow.”

  They entered the gate again at nightfall, worn, mud-stained and drenched; the rains had started again. Rush rode ahead to the towers to speak to the Holder. Meguet relinquished her horse at the gate. The Gatekeeper, holding a torch above their heads, took a sharp look at her face and said cautiously,

  “Is it Lady Nyx?”

  “No.”

  “Then what?” He drew her to shelter against the wall, beneath the turret, replacing the torch in its sconce.

  “You must beware,” she said. His eyes widened. “Think,” she pleaded. “Think. Has a blind woman entered this house since I’ve been gone?”

  He was staring at her, so still she gripped his cloak, shook him a little, alarmed. “No,” he said abruptly. “No.” His hands rose, closed over her hands. “No stranger has entered or left, and no one blind.”

  “She’s beautiful, the witch said. A blind woman, beautiful as night.” She glanced at the gate; he had closed it securely behind her. “You must watch for her. She must not enter.”

  “No,” he said again. “Who is she?”

  “I don’t know. The witch didn’t say. She walks the path of time toward this house. Blind, she may know or may not know this house is underfoot.” She felt him shudder; his hands tightened.

  “But who?” he insisted. “She must have a name. Tinker has no name, the blind woman has no name—Meguet, you must find out. How can I guard against something that has no name? How can you?”